


Alice

by CanadianGarrison



Series: The Long Way Home [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alice in Wonderland References, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, But Read it anyways really it's okay trust me, Canadian cuisine, Canon grief over parent's death, Comfort/Angst, M/M, Porthos is the best, Recreational Drug Use, Sad!d'Artagnan, Songfic, Tom Waits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-17 12:56:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8144842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadianGarrison/pseuds/CanadianGarrison
Summary: d'Artagnan and Porthos get to know each other a bit better, but not in the way Porthos had hoped, exactly.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of my series "The Long Way Home", you don't *have* to read them in order but it would probably help.
> 
> Each story comes with an associated Tom Waits song. That's right bitches, songfic! I know, I don't always listen to the songs when other people post songfic, but please, please listen to the song I link when you read each story? I love Tom Waits and want to share him with you, and I think hearing the song will add to the experience.
> 
> The song for this story is "Alice" which you can listen to [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aEj-mrwwaxo). I would love to hear what you think about the song, Tom is my favourite musician.
> 
> Many thanks to my #smuttyladies and azile_teacup for audiencing and editing. All mistakes are my own, and sadly I do not own the characters.

D'Artagnan felt like Alice in Wonderland. Not that he wore dresses and striped stockings, and the tea party would've had a very different vibe if the Mad Hatter was naked, but the comparison worked, at least in his own mind. Staying with Athos and his apparently sex-crazed housemates was like being in a completely different world, similar to what he was used to but everything just a bit off, a bit skewed. Of course, his life back in Paris hadn't felt all that normal, either, by the time he’d left. 

D'Artagnan needed some time to think, and since Athos wouldn't take money for letting him stay with them, he was at the grocery store, trying to figure out dinner for them all. Clean cups, clean cups. What did people even eat? He'd been living off Tim Hortons and fast food for a few weeks, hadn't cooked in ages, and what if they were vegetarian? Why hadn't he paid closer attention, or asked? 

D'Artagnan's father used to make this tuna fish thing, cook it with whatever veggies they had in the house and tomato sauce, serve it over thick slices of bread… Where did he even come up with that idea? Was that a thing d'Artagnan could make for someone else? It had been him and his dad, just them, for so long, and now his father was dead and he would never get to see d'Artagnan get married or have kids and if he didn't want to be crying in the cereal aisle he'd better think about something else. Clean cups, clean cups. 

Lasagna? Everyone liked lasagna and it wasn't too hard to make it vegetarian, he could get some of that soy meat stuff. Okay. This would be okay. They wouldn't kick him out over a non-vegan lasagna, would they? He could just get the ingredients and then ask before actually cooking anything. Maybe some ice cream, too? Porthos definitely liked ice cream, d'Artagnan watched him go through two pints in a sitting the other day, stoned on Athos's excellent weed and cuddled up to Aramis on their comfy green couch. 

D'Artagnan wandered the aisles some more, basket dangling from one hand, gathering lasagna supplies and whatever else looked interesting. The checkout lines were long but he counted people, counted how many things were in the basket the lady in front of him was holding, counted all the types of gum and the Canadian chocolate bars, not the same ones as at home, not the one he'd bring his dad when he stopped at the store on the way home from school. 

He piled his food on the counter, watched as the gawky teenager scanned it, confirmed he needed bags – how else would he get it all home? – and bags were handed over, bright yellow slippery plastic, how was he supposed to get everything into the bags and pay for the food and get out of the way all at once? He was making everyone wait, the cashier was bored but everyone else looked impatient and there were piles of boxes over there, people used boxes, should he have gotten a box? How would he get the box on the subway? 

Two bags, he was okay, take the bags and walk out, walk up the street, don't look at anyone too long, just get outside. Okay. Clean cups. Two blocks to the subway, two blocks with two bags and he was okay. Just breathe. Clean cups.

Athos had loaned d'Artagnan his metropass the day before, so when he got to the subway he just had to show the collector and walk in. Which way did they live? East, okay. Eastbound train, all the way to the end of the platform so it's quieter, and the subway was just pulling in as he got there so all d'Artagnan had to do was get on and stand in the corner of the opposite doors, the ones that weren't going to open at each station. Nobody was watching, no one was judging, he could do this. 

Two stops into the trip d'Artagnan realized he was crying, tears streaming down from behind his sunglasses, and he couldn't do anything about it without putting down the groceries and spilling something out of the overstuffed bags but maybe no one noticed or maybe no one cared, either way no one said anything. By the time two more stops passed and he got off, the tears were done and d'Artagnan just felt drained. Hopefully one of them would know how to cook. Hopefully d'Artagnan had gotten the right ingredients to make lasagna. 

* * *

Porthos was there when d'Artagnan got back, puttering around wearing soft plaid pyjama pants and an old black tank top. When d'Artagnan came in the front door Porthos took one look at him and held out his hands. D'Artagnan handed off the grocery bags, earning a shake of Porthos's head as the bags were deposited on the hallway floor and Porthos again stood there with his arms open. Oh – he was offering a hug.

After a moment's hesitation d'Artagnan stepped into Porthos's space, not quite ready to return the hug, but letting his head rest on Porthos's broad shoulder as Porthos held him gently. He was big and solid and warm, smelled like clean laundry and orange ginger shower gel. 

“How'd you know?” D'Artagnan's voice was thick with tears, even after all he'd shed already. 

“Plenty of practice,” Porthos answered. “Plus, there's tears on your sunglasses. Seen that before.”

“Aramis?”

“Athos, actually. Come on, let's get you properly inside.” With that, Porthos pulled back, picked up the grocery bags and led d'Artagnan into the house. 

The living room was bright and tidy, and d'Artagnan flopped down onto the couch, letting Porthos rummage through the bags and just focusing on being calm, being present. 

“Lucky Charms?” 

“Seemed like Aramis's type. Was I wrong?” 

“Not at all, not at all. I just try not to encourage him.” D'Artagnan sat up and looked at Porthos, ready to apologize, and realized he was joking with him. 

“You hungry? I've got Kraft Dinner left over from yesterday.”

“That'd be great, thanks.” He'd probably be hungry when food was in front of him. 

D'Artagnan lay back on the couch, listened to Porthos moving around the kitchen, the fridge door opening and closing, the microwave beeping. How could things be so normal, everyone just going about their day to day lives? His father’s death had changed his whole world, but outside of d'Artagnan's little bubble, everything just went on, the same as before. It wasn't right. 

“Come on,” Porthos's voice interrupted d'Artagnan's half-dozing thoughts. “Lunch is on the table.”

When d'Artagnan joined him in the kitchen, he found the table set with two bowls of macaroni and cheese, two glasses of water, and an ash tray with a joint and lighter sitting next to it. 

“Now,” Porthos said, “we’re going to eat our lunch, and share this smoke, and then I'm going to make the lasagna that you so thoughtfully got all the ingredients for while you tell me all about what's got you so down like this. All right?”

“You don't have to –” d'Artagnan protested. 

“Don't have to do anything,” Porthos stopped him. “But… I like you, we all do. It's only been a couple days but we like having you here with us. So tell me, d'Artagnan, what's wrong? Let me be here with you.”

D'Artagnan stared into his bowl as Porthos spoke. It was true, he had only known them for a few days, but already d'Artagnan felt closer to Porthos, Aramis and Athos than he had to the friends he'd left behind in France. The friends who all stopped calling after the funeral, never saying why exactly, but he knew it was because he was too sad and they couldn't handle it. Couldn't understand him. 

“You didn't – I don't want to burden you with it. You didn't even ask me to live here, Athos did.”

“Athos checked with us first,” Porthos said, “and besides, Aramis or I would've suggested it pretty soon even if he hadn't. Like I said, we like having you around. Did… did someone else do that? Think you were a burden?”

“I… not exactly. All right.” Deep breath. “My father died.” He managed to get the words out, but then he was crying again, ugly, choking sobs and there was no way to hide it, he couldn't stop and he couldn't breathe and there was no kleenex, nothing to blow his nose in, and what would Porthos think of him, a grown man who couldn't even share a simple fact without losing it? 

D'Artagnan leaned forward to put his head in his hands, but Porthos was already there beside him, kneeling by his chair and gently pulling d'Artagnan's arms, tugging him off his own seat and onto Porthos's lap on the floor, folding him up in the biggest, softest hug yet, rocking him while he cried. 

He cried for a long time, or at least it felt that way, all curled up in Porthos's arms and lost in memories, dreams, hopes he'd had for his future that would never come true. When he had cried himself out d'Artagnan moved to pull away but Porthos made an unhappy sound, so he settled back down, turning his head to an easier angle, feeling the beat of Porthos's heart against his own chest as they breathed together. 

It had been a long time since d'Artagnan had been pressed up against another man’s body, too long, but he didn't feel any stirrings of desire – right now all he wanted besides this hug was the cold lunch still waiting on the table, the temporary but welcome easing of intensity that the pot would bring to his emotions. 

Eventually Porthos's grip lightened and d'Artagnan shifted, his glassy-eyed gaze finding the same mirrored back from Porthos. 

“Are  _ you _ all right?” d'Artagnan asked. Porthos sniffed, sighed. 

“My mum,” he started, and took a deep breath. “Died when I was little, ‘s not the same, but. I remember her, some, and I miss her. Worse some times than others, you know.”

“Oh Porthos – I'm so sorry – I didn't know,” d'Artagnan stammered. How selfish of him, he hadn't even considered what might be in Porthos's past, or Athos or Aramis, and how much worse must it have been to be a  _ child, _ d'Artagnan had had nearly two decades with his father and here he was carrying on like an ungrateful baby –

“Stop it,” Porthos said gently. “Not sure where you just went in that head of yours, but it's not what I meant by sharing that, not at all.” Porthos squeezed him close again, tucking d'Artagnan’s head under his chin. He smelled so good, warm and clean and comforting. “We’ve all… ‘s not for me to tell their stories, but the three of us, we've all lost people we loved. You'll see. You'll fit right in.” His voice was sad but calm, and d'Artagnan found that same calmness echoed in himself, shared it like Porthos had shared his sorrow. 

The rest of the afternoon passed quietly; they did smoke that joint, and another, and ate the Kraft Dinner, and d'Artagnan dozed on the couch while Porthos cooked the lasagna and watched his TV shows, laughing softly and shaking his head at a reality show set in a trailer park. He was still in Wonderland, but this time it felt better, felt right. Maybe he’d finally found his kind, people who had been where he was and knew how to survive it. 

“You're the March hare,” d’Artagnan murmured, not quite sure if he had started this conversation earlier, if Porthos would know what he meant. 

“Yeah? Athos would be the Dormouse, then, since Aramis is definitely the Mad Hatter.” D'Artagnan nodded in agreement, breathed easier for being understood even in the most obscure ways. Wonderland. 

“You know what they say, then,” Porthos said, rubbing a hand over d'Artagnan's shoulder. “Clean cups.”

**Author's Note:**

> Some but not all of these stories will be smutty. I’m open to suggestions, if there are things you’d particularly love to see happen, just leave a comment or message me on [Tumblr](canadiangarrison.tumblr.com).


End file.
